Waves – The Musician of Saint-Merry

Poem by Guillaume Apollinaire Collection CalligrammesPeriod 20th century

I have at last the right to greet beings I do not know
They pass before me and accumulate in the distance
While all that I see of them is unknown to me
And their hope is no less strong than mine

I do not sing this world nor the other stars
I sing all the possibilities of myself outside this world and the stars
I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of dying of it

The 21st of the month of May 1913
Ferryman of the dead and the mordonnantes mériennes
Millions of flies fanned a splendor
When a man without eyes without nose and without ears
Leaving the Sébasto entered the rue Aubry-le-Boucher
Young the man was brown and strawberry-colored on the cheeks
Man Ah! Ariadne
He played the flute and the music directed his steps
He stopped at the corner of rue Saint-Martin
Playing the tune that I sing and that I invented
The women passing by stopped near him
They came from all sides
When suddenly the bells of Saint-Merry began to ring
The musician stopped playing and drank from the fountain
That is at the corner of rue Simon-Le-Franc
Then Saint-Merry fell silent
The stranger resumed his flute tune
And retracing his steps walked as far as rue de la Verrerie
Where he entered followed by the troop of women
Who came out of the houses
Who came through the cross streets with wild eyes
Hands outstretched toward the melodious ravisher
He went on indifferent playing his tune
He went on terribly

Then elsewhere
At what time will a train leave for Paris

At that moment
The pigeons of the Moluccas were dunging nutmegs
At the same time
Catholic mission of Bôma what have you done with the sculptor

Elsewhere
She crosses a bridge that links Bonn to Beuel and disappears through Pützchen
At the same instant
A young girl in love with the mayor
In another neighborhood
Rival then poet with the labels of perfumers
In short O laughers you have not drawn much from men
And barely have you extracted a little fat from their misery
But we who die of living far from one another
Let us stretch out our arms and on these rails rolls a long freight train

You were weeping seated near me in the back of a cab

And now
You resemble me you resemble me unfortunately
We resemble each other as in the architecture of the last century
Those tall chimneys like towers
We are going higher now and no longer touch the ground

And while the world lived and varied

The procession of women long as a day without bread
Followed in rue de la Verrerie the happy musician

Processions O processions
It is when in olden times the king went to Vincennes
When ambassadors arrived in Paris
When the lean Suger hurried toward the Seine
When the riot died around Saint-Merry

Processions O processions
The women overflowed so great was their number
In all the neighboring streets
And hurried stiff as a ball
In order to follow the musician
Ah! Ariadne and you Pâquette and you Amine
And you Mia and you Simone and you Mavise
And you Colette and you beautiful Geneviève
They have passed trembling and vain
And their light and nimble steps moved according to the cadence
Of the pastoral music that guided
Their eager ears
The stranger stopped a moment before a house for sale
Abandoned house
With broken windowpanes
It is a dwelling of the sixteenth century
The courtyard serves as a shed for delivery carts
It was there that the musician entered
His music which was moving away became languorous
The women followed him into the abandoned house
And all entered there mingled in a band
All all entered there without looking behind them
Without regretting what they have left
What they have abandoned
Without regretting the day life and memory
Soon no one remained in rue de la Verrerie
Except myself and a priest of Saint-Merry
We entered the old house
But we found no one there

Here is evening
At Saint-Merry it is the Angelus that rings
Processions O processions
It is when in olden times the king returned from Vincennes
There came a troop of cap makers
There came banana merchants
There came soldiers of the Republican Guard
O night
Herd of languorous gazes of women
O night
You my sorrow and my vain waiting
I hear the sound of a distant flute dying

Guillaume Apollinaire

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-waves-the-musician-of-saintmerry-guillaume-apollinaire/